Do not tell me I need god
when I am caught skipping class
and the lines around my fingers from
vomiting up stress glow red
and I cannot sleep.
I do not need anything
that tells me my existence is wrong.
Do not tell me I am sinning
when I skip church to meditate
naked in my bedroom.
The universe hums inside my veins
and you are sleeping through the sermon.
Do not tell me I deserve it
when I wake up with nightmares.
The devil has not found me,
but I know more than anything
that god exists inside everybody.
I have seen his face.
I have tasted his forgiveness.
Last night, I spoke to the heavens.
You have told me so many times
that my beliefs are wrong because they are mine
and they don’t line up with the bible
you opened once
and then set on a shelf to gather dust.
I have read that bible more than you.
And the Quran, and the Torah, and the I-ching too
and I think I have the right to pick and choose.
God is not a set of rules.
God is science and sex and forgiveness,
and when I say this
do not tell me that I am a lost soul.
Do not tell me that I do not know the truth.
No one does:
not me or you
or the preacher
or the monks who haven’t moved in years.
The truth is that life is a cycle of love and hate
and the idea of god exists to manipulate
in whatever way suits you best.
Do not tell me to pray to escape eternal punishment;
my god knows nothing about this.
I believe in human kindness
and when you cry for having raised me wrong
I don’t know how to explain
that maybe everyone’s beliefs are right in their own way.
Do not tell me you are better than me
for thinking only of your spirituality
from eleven to noon on Sundays
and once a year on Ash Wednesday.
You will not get into heaven by name-dropping Jesus
at the parties you go to.
Do not invalidate what I’m saying
because your god has a book and a house
and mine only has me.
After all, you are looking for eternity
and I am only looking